Claire Henley: Adventures West (The Last Desert Stretch)

(Editor's Note: Chattanoogan Claire Henley started an adventure of a lifetime on the remote Pacific Crest Trail in April. Along the way, she had many adventures and found herself a husband named Big Spoon).

“I cared for you in the wilderness, In the land of drought.”

-Hoseah 13: 5

On Friday, May 29, Big Spoon and I set foot on our last desert stretch of the PCT. We had been in the SoCal desert for 36 days. For 36 days we lived in the sand and scratchy scrub. Our noses were blistered from the sun, and we walked on dust-stained feet. We were ready for a change of scenery. We were ready for a change. But we had to keep going a little longer. We had to finish the desert out strong. For what lay ahead was the grand finale of the vast land we had journeyed through: a 144 mile footslog through the brutally challenging Mojave. This marked our longest haul yet. And it would be our hardest, too, because of the extreme heat, limited water, and our painfully heavy packs. 

We began on a cloud free morning at the Willow Spring Trailhead in Tehachapi, mile 558. Our packs held 7 days of food and 2 liters of water. We prepared them the night before at Trail Angel Kris’ house, daunted to find we could hardly close them they were so full. At dawn, Big Spoon weighed his pack on Kris’ bathroom scale before she drove us to the trailhead. He had a whopping 58 lbs to lug. My pack weighed slightly less. Thus, as we took our first steps up the loose sand that led through whipping windmills and grunting cattle, it felt like a cruel punishment, like we were heaving up a load of bricks. 

Eight miles in, the trail spit us out onto the sizzling Highway 158. We crossed the busy road that was being beat down by the high noon sun. At the trail junction, a water cache slumped like melted wax next to a burnt patch of cacti. Big Spoon and I grabbed two 1 gallon jugs–bath water warm–and filled our water bottles to the brim. It was 17 miles to our next reliable water source. We wouldn’t get there today, and the upcoming terrain was uphill, solitary, and without shade. We capped at 5 liters of water each to be safe. Then, before starting up again, Big Spoon examined the thermometer tied to his pack. It read 106 degrees.

Over the next 5 miles, we climbed. By two in the afternoon, our bodies were spent. Sweat slipped from our skin like blood from open wounds. Our breaths came heavy, making our throats terribly dry. We had come upon a ridge that looked out on the pale hot doom. Big Spoon said he had to stop. “I need to eat something, Claire,” he said. “I need to rest.”

A sliver of shade shot from the tall, slanting rock next to where we stood. We dropped our packs, propped ourselves against the rock, and extended our legs over the narrow trail. We fell sound asleep. It wasn’t until 5:00–when the shadows were long, the air was cooler, and a group of hikers stepped over us–that Big Spoon and I awoke. Big Spoon checked his water. He had guzzled 3 liters in 5 miles, meaning he had 2 liters left; which was bad because we had 12 miles to go until the next water source, and we wouldn’t arrive there until the next day.

That night, at mile 578, we didn’t pitch our tent, but cowboy camped beneath the stars and oblong moon in order to have an easy cleanup the next morning and get an early start to reach the water 6 miles away before the dreadful sun kicked in. However, when morning came, we didn’t vacate. This was because I showed Big Spoon the glossy piece of red chipped chert I found while walking downhill from our site to use the bathroom. According to Big Spoon, I found an arrowhead flake. He knew this because of the unique shape and material of the flake that, he could tell, had been manufactured from a larger stone by an antler or other natural tool.

“It’s called knapping,” Big Spoon said with a knowing grin. “It’s the method Native Americans used to make their arrowheads.” Then he told me that before starting the PCT he prayed to find a complete arrowhead since the trail traveled through many areas where ancient tribes thrived. Like a kid in a candy shop, he asked with big eyes if we could stay where we were a little longer to look for an arrowhead. I was thrilled to join the hunt. And so, instead of beating the desert heat to get to water–that which we needed to survive–we spent the next two hours scanning and probing our pebbly campsite, as well as the dry creek bed below, for an exquisitely rare rock. 

By the end of our search, when the morning breeze died and the sun shone in full force, we had reaped a good handful of different colored flakes–yellows, pinks, whites, and blacks. All were beautiful but none were whole. The sun rays seared the sand as we brushed it with our fingers.  I was thirsty, and now my water was low. It was time to go.

“10 more minutes,” Big Spoon called. I was heading for my pack while he continued to explore. He was in his element, a treasure hunter to the core: his impassioned search fueled him. I sat against my pack and covered my face with my hat. Then I uncovered my face and, against my better judgment, drank my water until it was nearly gone. 10 minutes later, Big Spoon walked up to me, his palm victoriously outstretched. 

“It’s not an arrowhead,” he said as I studied the black, dense, triangular stone in his hand. “But I think I found a spearhead. And it’s all in one piece.”

Finding the spearhead made Big Spoon’s day so much so that I don’t think he noticed running out of water before we reached Golden Oaks Spring at mile 584. The spring dripped into a horse trough. I had also run out of water before we arrived. And while the mass of hikers lined up to fill their bottles straight from the trickling source, Big Spoon and I didn’t wait, but filtered the water that had collected in the trough. Then we gulped it down like animals. 

That afternoon, we took a siesta at the spring beneath the golden oaks. Every hiker there did the same. They sprawled out against the ever shifting shade like tired old dogs. Because it was so relentlessly hot during the day, the common strategy now was to night hike. Especially with the moon becoming full. It lit up the dark land like a nightlight in a room. It gave just the right amount of light to still see. 

The next day, at mile 602, Big Spoon and I caught up with the Oregon brothers–Shades, Sticks, and Pogo–who were sitting in line from oldest to youngest against the crumbled retaining wall at Robin Bird Spring. Allegedly, after Robin Bird Spring, Landers Meadows Spring at mile 609 would be the last water source for 43 miles. Let that resonate. A 43-mile waterless stretch. To put the gravity of this in perspective, Big Spoon and I were hiking 20 miles a day. On average, in this heat, we consumed 1 liter of water every 4 miles. A 43-mile waterless stretch therefore meant we would need to carry at least 10 liters of water, if not 11, for two days of hiking. A liter of water weighed over 2 lbs. Ten liters of water weighed over 20 lbs. Even if we had the capacity to carry 10 liters of water (which we didn’t; both Big Spoon and I only had capacity for 7 liters) in no way would we want to carry that added weight. We consulted with the brothers on their game plan. 

“We’re hiking to Landers Meadows today, cameling up at the spring, then hauling it 30 miles tomorrow to Yellow Jacket Spring,” Shades said, his eyes protected from the sun by his orange polarized shades. Then Sticks–who hiked with two long pine sticks–informed that at Yellow Jacket Spring we could dig a hole in the grass for water. And Pogo nodded up and down like a pogo stick to confirm what his brothers said was true. 

I pulled out the water report and found Yellow Jacket Spring. Sure enough, 30 miles away from Landers Meadows, we could dig a hole for water. Of course, 30 miles was still a lengthy water carry, but at least it was better than 43 miles.  

“I have a plan,” Big Spoon said after we spoke with the brothers. His plan was to hike to Landers Meadows immediately, hydrate, eat, load our water containers, and then go directly to sleep in order to wake in the middle of the night, start hiking, and not stop until making Yellow Jacket Spring. 

“Nice plan!” The brothers, who had overheard, approved.

It would make for a thrilling story if Big Spoon and I really had to walk 43 miles through waterless desert terrain. But the truth is, several unadvertised water caches were stocked along the way. In fact, we never went more than 20 miles before coming upon water. Nevertheless, Big Spoon and I followed through with the plan to night hike from Landers. The moon was out, as were the scorpions and spiders. (A black widow spun a web on my pack during a break.) But because of the caches, we didn’t need to go the full 30 miles in one day for water. Hence, it was the day after our night hike (on Tuesday at noon) that we took the dirt-road side trail to Yellow Jacket Spring, dug a hole in the tall grass with Big Spoon’s trowel, and watched the dark, cool water bubble out. 

That night, we stayed at Walker Pass Campground at mile 651–the mile where the alleged 43-mile waterless stretch came to its end. The brothers were there, along with Sketch–a Japanese artist who spoke broken English and kept a mesmerizing sketch book of completed, PCT inspired works. Sketch built a fire at his site that we all gathered round as the full moon rose to meet the stars. The flickering light from the fire skittishly illimuminated the grease, sweat, and dirt on everyone’s hair, cheeks, and clothes. We discussed the anticlimactic “Waterless Stretch,” and how we were prepared to handle it, but how we were beyond thankful it didn’t come to pass. Pogo nodded up and down. These simple moments of cameraderie made the difficulties, complexities, and ironic shortcomings of the trail worth every single step. 

Two and a half days later, on Friday, June 5, Big Spoon and I strolled into Kennedy Meadows at mile 702. Our entire week on the trail had been dictated by the whereabouts of water–even the Joshua Tree Spring at mile 664, where the water had been tested and found to contain dangerously high uranium levels. We drank from every source then toted our brimful bottles like cinder blocks. Kennedy Meadows came as a relief. It had a population of 200, an elevation of 6,427 ft., and was the famous first milestone of the PCT, the one that declared the desert is done, that stamped in our weathered soles the completion of the first quarter of our trek. Kennedy Meadows was known as the gateway to the Sierras. As we exited the Mojave and entered Sequoia National Forest, silver mountains soared into the sky where clouds now formed. After 7.5 days on the last desert stretch, however, all I cared for was a gateway to a shower. But I was happy we made it. I was weary, weak, filthy, and parched; and so very, very happy.

As Big Spoon and I walked up to the General Store where hikers could pitch their tents, we saw a herd of hikers celebrating on the big back deck. Then we heard the hikers start to clap, quietly at first then louder like a musical crescendo. We turned to see who they clapped for, but we were the only ones coming up. Then it hit us. The hikers–our fellow hikers who we had befriended over the last 44 days–were clapping for us. They clapped for us because we made it. They clapped because we survived the formidable desert. And they clapped because, despite our hardship and due to our joy in the journey, we would continue to walk on. We would continue to follow the PCT.

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Claire's first book on her adventures while living in Colorado can be ordered here:

http://www.amazon.com/51-Weeks-The-Unfinished-Journey-ebook/dp/B00IWYDLBQ/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1394801373&sr=8-1&keywords=51+Weeks